


Wilted Flowers

by KinugoshiDofu



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bisexual Sirius Black, First Kiss, Gay Remus Lupin, Hanahaki AU, Hanahaki Disease, Hurt/Comfort, Japanese, Japanese roots Sirius Black, M/M, Marauders, Marauders Friendship, Marauders' Era, POV Sirius Black, Sirius Black & James Potter Friendship, Young Remus Lupin, Young Sirius Black, hanahaki, mentioned Sirius Black/Marlene McKinnon, mentioned sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-30
Updated: 2017-10-30
Packaged: 2019-01-26 22:34:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12567700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KinugoshiDofu/pseuds/KinugoshiDofu
Summary: Remus picks up the flower petal and even in the dimly lit dormitory he can see the confusion on the tan face. It’s almost obscenely white in the light of the moon outside, and it is bright where Remus is holding it in his hand. He looks like he’s torn between amusement and concern, but he settles for slight disbelief as he teases, “did Padfoot have a go at Professor Sprout’s flowerbeds?”He wants to say yes, because that’s a very none-scary explanation for almost choking to death on a flower, except he is pretty sure Padfoot loathes flowers ever since last time when he got a chomp of dirt along with it which put him off of flowers for good. The answer is no, Padfoot did not have a go at Professor’s Sprout’s flowerbeds, and Padfoot also has no idea why he’s coughing up flowers.





	Wilted Flowers

**Author's Note:**

> I gave Sirius and Regulus Japanese roots to fit with the hanahakibyō theme, so ages ago the Black family was the Kuro family (Kuro means black in Japanese) and then I spent a lot of time giggling over Re-gu-ra-su and Shi-ri-a-su.
> 
> Also I really like writing Sirius with long hair and have him tuck it up with his wand but I also used "kanzashi" here because I love that idea as well~ It started as a joke, Sirius stealing his mother's kanzashi, and then I just imagined him liking it and having like a lil' collection? Kanzashi are Japanese hair sticks.

_**Wilted Flowers** _

He is fifteen, on top of the world, and about to score one hell of a goal when he has a coughing fit on his broom. Lucius Malfoy dives past him and he is vaguely aware of James shouting his name – seconds later he manages to barely dodge a bludger and he throws the quaffle kind of haphazardly but it finds its goal anyway.

It’s not until later when he realises he still has this feeling of something stuck down his throat that he remembers. He coughs and coughs and coughs in the Quidditch field showers and then the feeling passes, just like that, and when he takes some water and then spits it back out to clean his mouth, there’s a white flower petal being washed down the drain.

He’s never seen this type of flower, and he wonders idly about what the house elves put into the puddings while he rinses off his hair before getting dressed.

The party has already started when he reaches the tower, and he probably indulges a little more than he should – one more shot of fire whiskey, one more drunken kiss he won’t remember – and he doesn’t know how he gets into bed, all he knows is that he makes it.

A month later he wakes up in the middle of the night, gasping for breath except nothing happens. There’s a burning in his chest, hot white like fire and he clasps at it, claws at his pyjamas and feels the skin where it’s drawn over his ribs and…

There’s nothing – it’s hot from the inside out but it doesn’t feel like a fever and…

He gets the feeling again, and he remembers coughing up a storm in the Quidditch showers but he can’t this time – he tries gulping in air but it’s _stuck_ , he’s _stuck_ , and…

He’s only vaguely aware of his drapes getting pulled back and then there’s arms forcing him up and somebody is rubbing his back in soothing circles. He gasps again, and again, and very slowly air returns to his lungs and he inhales deeply, his throat itchy and then coughs and…

Remus picks up the flower petal and even in the dimly lit dormitory he can see the confusion on the tan face. It’s almost obscenely white in the light of the moon outside, and it is bright where Remus is holding it in his hand. He looks like he’s torn between amusement and concern, but he settles for slight disbelief as he teases, “did Padfoot have a go at Professor Sprout’s flowerbeds?”

He wants to say _yes_ , because that’s a very none-scary explanation for almost choking to death on a flower, except he is pretty sure Padfoot _loathes_ flowers ever since last time when he got a chomp of dirt along with it which put him off of flowers for good. The answer is _no_ , Padfoot did _not_ have a go at Professor’s Sprout’s flowerbeds, and Padfoot also has _no idea_ why he’s coughing up flowers. But Remus is rubbing his fists into his eyes and there’s just this whole aura of concern radiating off him and it’s too damn late or too damn early for this so he just kind of gives a lopsided grin and shrugs, as if to say, _you know Padfoot_ , which in turn makes Remus giggle only to then stifle a yawn.

With a last pat on his back, Remus crawls back into his own four-poster, and the next day it’s like they’ve both forgotten it’s happened.

It gets worse over summer because _everything in his life_ gets worse over summer – it is like an unspoken rule that his mother will shout abuse, his father will _be_ abusive, and his brother will cower in corners. He spends a lot of nights breathing a little heavily and the other nights he spends roaming around town smoking cigarettes and stolen umeshu and one night when he arrives home he gets into a fight with his father and he gets beaten into a bundimun and the only thing that causes his father to back off is when he starts choking again – sure enough, it isn’t long before he’s coughing up two desolate flower petals.

It’s almost ironic how prettily they drift to the ground only for him to cough up some blood next and suddenly it’s a little funny because there’s bright red against the pure white and he’s smirking despite himself.

Except that his father stumbles back in something akin to surprise – his eyes flit from the petals on the floor to Sirius’ face and then back and then he does something absolutely terrifying.

He starts laughing.

And not even a mean laugh – not a mocking laugh, but an uprightly happy laugh and there is nothing more terrifying than his father, _uprightly happy_ , because his father doesn’t laugh at jokes like normal fathers do; his father laughs at death and destruction, and nothing short of it.

And he doesn’t stop – not even as he scrambles to his feet and runs for the door; his father’s laughter chases him all the way out the house and he thinks that maybe he can still hear it long after he’s left.

James looks at him as if he cannot believe people could possibly be so rotten – he doesn’t think his friend will ever wake up from this pleasant daydream that is his loving life, but then he also doesn’t _not_ wish him well. There is nothing in his life here that hurts, loved by his parents and grandparents, the pride of the family, all smiles, all the time.

He almost feels _wrong_ there, bloody nose and bloody sleeves and how James just _looks at him_. As if he is what is rotten in the world – but then he gets pulled inside and the moment is gone. James doesn’t realise again that some people are dead inside, not until much later, and Sirius doesn’t point it out simply because there is no reason to. If James spends his whole life believing all fathers love their children unconditionally, then that will be just fine.

That night he dreams of his father’s face, _laughing_ , and the white flower petals, splattered red.

He doesn’t go back home ever again, and he never regrets that decision.

It’s the beginning of sixth year and everyone has grown, but Sirius’ hair has grown most of all, out of stubbornness mostly and these days he holds it up with a _kanzashi_ he stole from his mother, just because he _can_. Remus has also gotten more scars over summer, to which he just shrugs, “I’m a grown wolf now,” and it’s funny but _not_.

He thinks everything’s fine, for a while, and he can almost forget about the flowers, because these days he’s gotten used to the itching in his throat. He doesn’t wake up coughing in the middle of the night, and every time he feels the familiar tickle he just swallows, and swallows, and swallows again.

For his birthday this year he gets an expensive looking drawing kit from James, a bottle of Ogden’s Old Firewhisky and a whole assortment of firecrackers from Peter, and three different records and…

Remus also gives him flowers. Very beautiful white ones, with their delicate edges curled and they are shaped a little like closed off stars. Even in the orange light of the fireplace, he knows they will be silver in the moonlight, and he…

“I grew them from the petal,” his friend explains when there is no reaction forthcoming, “you remember? The one Padfoot swallowed? I looked for them in Sprout’s garden but she had none,” he shrugs his shoulders awkwardly and he thinks maybe there’s a blush on that tan face, hidden beneath scars and the glow of the fire, “if you put them in soil they’ll bloom at night.”

There’s no words because there literally _are no words_ for him to explain how this feels because there’s incredulousness; he is _coughing this flower up_ , petal by aching-all-the-way-up-his-throat petal, and his friend finds it appropriate to give him _the whole damn set plus extras_ as a birthday present? And then there’s also disbelief because _you kept the petal and watered it and now it’s these pretty flowers_? But mostly _since when are you any good at Herbology Moony?_ And it’s that last one that he says out loud because it’s the only one he _can_ say out loud – the others just kind of thump around his chest for a long time, even as he later pots the flowers and puts them on the windowsill next to his bed.

He watches them even as he crawls into bed and he thinks of how pretty they had looked in Moony’s hands – his skin so dark against the almost liquid silver-like flower. He thinks that maybe, now that he has these besides him, he won’t have to cough them up any longer.

Of course, it turns out to be an idle hope.

The itch in his throat turns into a tickle – a little better – and then back into an itch and then he can’t breathe again. He finds himself stumbling out of the classroom during Binn’s monotone droning about Goblin wars with the concerned looks of his friends following him as he shuts the door behind him, runs over to the window across from the classroom and then just violently throws his upper body out over the window sill.

He is _sure_ he’s going to throw up – maybe he’s had too much kidney pie for breakfast? But is there any such thing as _too much kidney pie_? – he gasps and splutters and _maybe I’m going to die_? and then…

He’s coughing so hard, the strength of his breath when it does returns kind of catapults the first petal out – his eyes are tearing up, he feels drops streaming down his cheeks and it’s blurry but the white petal is drifting there and then he gasps coughs again and there’s a second one and it’s more of an annoying tickle now and then—

A deep cough, from all the way down, and there’s two more petals coming out. His throat feels raw but it’s petal-less again, he’s sure. He wipes at his face with the sleeves of his black robes, wipes away the tears and wipes across his mouth and there’s a fifth petal that has gotten stuck there apparently – he sees it now, stuck to his robe instead, and he just kind of stares at it.

He’s so engrossed in his own haphazard thoughts that he doesn’t hear footsteps until they’re right beside him, and there’s someone putting their hand on his shoulder and when he looks up it’s his brother.

Regulus is not watching his face – his almond-shaped eyes are fixed on the flower petal still stuck to his robe and as he realises this he shakes his arm viciously, quickly shaking off said incriminating petal.

“Sirius—“ he doesn’t want to hear it, nothing from his brother’s mouth, because Regulus’ face is so like his father’s and he remembers how he had been laughing, happily, _cruelly_ , he can still hear it in his head.

“I have to get back to class,” he shakes off his brother’s hand, and he doesn’t look back.

He tells himself he’s not worried.

Granted, it’s kind of _weird_. And now, he grew up with head elves’ heads stacked all the way up the staircase’s hand railing – he has a cousin who tortures innocent animals for fun and his alcoholic uncle liked _only him_ in his whole retched family. Everyone in said retched family is named after _stars_ and _galaxies_ and other poufy astronomical things, in a language that some of them _barely even speak_. He thinks he has a pretty good grasp of what constitutes as _weird_.

So yes. Flower petals stuck down his throat, waiting for him to almost choke and then cough them up? Weird, definitely. Top Five Weird Shit To Have Happened In Sirius Black’s Life – flower petals are _definitely_ on that list.

But it’s also not really _earth shattering_ , okay? In the grand scheme of things, does it really _matter_ that he keeps on mysteriously – dare he say _magically_? – producing flower petals? Because _honestly_ , his drunk uncle absolutely doting on him means a whole damn lot in the grand scheme of things, since he left Sirius a whole _ton_ of money upon his passing and that is something that is going to become crucial to him, very damn soon considering he hasn’t had any contact with his family in months now.

And his cousin torturing animals? That is just an accident _waiting to happen_ and seeing how violent tendencies run in his family he believes that yes, sooner or later this will impact him.

In comparison flowers seem like a really stupid thing to worry about. He tries to forget how he’d been _crying_ last time, and he remembers thinking he was about to die but then he’s always had a tendency for the dramatic. He tells himself, _it’s no big deal_ , and it doesn’t have to be, really, he’s sure.

And okay yes, it’s a little concerning how the petals seem to be multiplying? But also, does he _really_ care? _No._

So he chugs butterbeer with his friends and then makes out with a random girl and pretends he’s drunk on life, _except he’s not_ , and at night he piles up pillows and he watches the flowers besides his bed and he asks, _can you please not try to choke me tonight? Okay? Thanks babe._ And then doesn’t fall asleep for ages, until the worry has worn him out so much he can no longer keep his eyes open.

He follows his friend to the library on their free hours, and he tells himself _Moony is awesome, let’s spend ALL THE TIME TOGETHER_ , but to be honest he doesn’t exactly spend all that time with Moony, and instead he pretends to be bored while he saunters through the book racks. In reality, he’s opening up thick volumes of magical maladies and he thinks _maybe this one_ and then _maybe this_ or _maybe here_ and there’s never anything useful but at the end of the day Remus smiles at him from behind his ancient runes essay and they go down to the kitchen to get some butterbeer together and he thinks maybe just reading about magical maladies eases his issue, because the painful throb in his throat is just a tickle now.

He’s Padfoot now and there’s no worries because life is _brilliant_ and _is that a squirrel?_ He is all over the place, they’re _all_ all over the place, jumping and prancing and playing and this is it, this is life, pure unadulterated _fun_ , the best life, the best time, together with his best friends they are on top of the world – anything is possible, anything is within reach, and he thumps into Moony and then they skip up a set of rocks to howl at the moon.

It’s not as weird as Padfoot because although he is pretty sure he still has a flower stuck down his throat, he also isn’t very _aware of it_. As Padfoot, there are other priorities. He can hear mice and little critters on the forest floor and he feels this compelling urge to follow then. And there’s a _smell_ , this really intoxicating smell, and with his snout stuck down into the foliage he tries to trace it.

He follows it past Prongs and Wormtail and then he sneezes. Sneezing as a dog is not the same as sneezing as a human – his whole head just kind of shakes with it and then he sneezes again. There’s a tickle somewhere there and he gets kind of crazy with it, so that he starts rolling around on the floor and pushing his snout into the damp ground.

One minute he’s fluttering around on four paws and then the other he’s _on all fours_ , and he’s sneezing again and then he’s back on four paws and then _back_ on all fours. This has never happened to him before – not since way back when he first became an animagi and was bad at controlling his transfiguration – and he realises just a second too late how _stupid_ it is when he hears Moony roar and realises that full grown wolves and humans don’t mix and match.

He rolls to his side and then turns back into his handsome black doggy self and Moony’s roar turns into a whimper as the wolf pushes its nose into Padfoot’s flank as if to beg him to come play.

He might be imagining things but there’s a certain air in the way Prongs comes galloping their way that tells him he might be in for a scolding later. And, of course, he’s not wrong – when they’ve left Moony back in the Shrieking Shack to rest his soon-to-be wary body, James catches up with him while they’re making their way back through the tunnel.

“What happened out there?” he asks, but his eyes say, _“are you okay?”_ which is silly because James is a lot of things; a worrywart not one of them.

He just shakes his head no, then shrugs his shoulders. He can hear Peter singing off-key a little while behind them, and pretends to examine his pockets for a scrunchie as he avoids his friend’s look.

“But—“ on the list of things James is, however, obnoxious is probably up there in the top three. Sirius shuts him up with a well-aimed glare – Wormtail stumbles to catch up just as he hisses: “tell Moony what happened and I will turn you hair bright orange,” no malice but _not_ joking.

James drops the subject, but Sirius knows this is only because he _really_ detests the colour orange, and not out of any sort of affinity for him personally. He absolutely _loathes_ keeping secrets from Remus, as he specifically is a horrible liar and therefor equally skilled at spotting other horrible liars, James being one of them.

After that, it is fair to say that his search of magical maladies becomes only a tad bit more frantic. He engages Marlene in said search because the blonde is preparing to becoming a healer and has a simply unhealthy obsession with anything slightly health-impairing and out of the ordinary – as James has more than once pointed out, she visits the infirmary not for the healing students, but in hopes of seeing the state of the students _before_ they’re healed. He doesn’t tell her what he’s looking for, but just wonders aloud if there are any illnesses related to Herbology or flowers that she knows about.

McKinnon is refreshing in the way that she doesn’t bother hiding her infatuation, and when she kisses him over a copy of Aloe for All your Aching Ailments he’s not surprised and not quite opposed to the idea, either. There is something nice about having a friend who wants to kiss and _doesn’t_ expect you to write them poems and love songs and take them on dates – Sirius _detests_ clinginess in women, there is absolutely _nothing_ attractive about it, and if he wanted clinginess he’d date Wormtail. All the other Gryffindor girls he’s kissed before had always wanted more of his romantic engagement and he is just so _uninterested_ in feeling _anything_ that isn’t felt for the Marauders that he can’t be bothered even entertaining the idea of a relationship.

They sleep together too, because if there’s anything better than kissing without strings attached it is _definitely_ sex without strings attached. He wonders only briefly if Evans knows, and if she did, what she would say, but then he realises how glad he is that he doesn’t actually care about it, either. More than Marlene, he likes the casualty of it; he is choking on flower petals, he really needs everything else in his life to be as uncomplicated as is humanly possible.

He usually smuggles her in _after_ scheming with the Marauders up until the early hours, and then afterwards they just kind of chill together, smoke a cigarette behind his drawn blinds, and then she’s always chucking her nightgown back on and disappearing down the winding stairs.

Right now he is shuffling around by his trunk in just his boxer shorts because he’s _positive_ he left his smokes in his robes earlier. He finds them with a triumphant “ha!” and then when he gets back to the bed Marlene has just put on her panties and she’s waving her lighter around with a grin on her face, her breasts still bare.

They inhale together, both craving the nicotine release and there’s a familiar tickle in his throat. It’s not so bad now, not with smoke filling his lungs and the delicious taste of Tabaco on his lips. Except that maybe it’s stinging a little now, and the next inhale is not as satisfying as he expected it to be. He watches Marlene exhale and she fails to make shapes with the smoke and giggles anyway – he feels weird though, like maybe his throat is clenching together, and he’s thinking _maybe_ the petals are back but he’s not prepared for how much it _hurts_ this time.

He starts heaving quite suddenly and he is acutely aware of McKinnon staring at him in absolute bewilderment, but he also doesn’t care because he’s pretty sure he’s about to puke up a storm. Just as suddenly it’s like his throat just clasps _shut_ and he’s left gasping desperately.

Flinging himself off the bed he stumbles into his night stand and there’s the horrible screeching of wood on wood reverberating through the otherwise quiet dorm – he ignores this, and in the dark he sprints for the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind him.

His knees hurt as he throws himself on the floor and his throat _burns_ now, and his chest is _aching_ and he’s pretty sure he’s crying because it is _excruciating_. Nimble fingers claw at his chest, as if he can force it back into action except he doesn’t feel anything _wrong_ , not here where his skin is spanning over his ribcage. He pushes, desperate, hopes he can just _force it out_ – and he’s not even sure what it is anymore, what is scratching its way up his throat now, blocking off his windpipe.

“Looking saucy McKinnon,” he hears Prong’s voice teasing outside the bathroom door and his oxygen deprived brain wonders if maybe it’s the first time he’s seen breasts which aren’t his mothers.

“Shut your dirty whore mouth Potter,” Marlene bites and he kind of wants to laugh because he does really appreciate this bitchy side of her – he _can’t_ though, because he can’t even breath and his chest is having frantically and…

The door opens and then someone is rushing to his side – his hands are still clawing at his chest but through the blur of his tears he can see tan fingers joining his own, and he feels a gentle palm pressed into his back.

“Shhh,” Moony is making very soothing gestures against his lower back, and he rubs circle into his chest now, patiently pushing away where Sirius’ hands are still trying to claw through his own skin, “just relax.”

He wants to be _furious_ because how is he supposed to relax when he’s _dying_? Except maybe it’s helping?

 _Maybe Moony has a magical touch?_ He wonders, because he manages a great big cough now and the petals – usually so perky and pretty on their way out – just kind of _stream from his mouth_. It feels just like throwing up except not so acid-y and maybe more aesthetically pleasing because those flowers are pretty damn beautiful, Sirius is sure, when they’re not being pushed out through his throat.

He is aware of Remus carefully pushing his hair from his face before his hands go back to their rubbing on his chest. It still _hurts_ and he’s still _crying_ and he feels _fucking useless_ , but his friend is murmuring, “it’s okay, let it all out,” and then Marlene’s saying, “I’ll get his robe,” and James and Peter agreeing, “we’ll get you some hot coco from the kitchens buddy,” and there’s all these _thoughts_ and it _hurts to think_ but he realises that maybe this is what it feels like to be loved.

Will it always hurt this much?

There must be dozens of petals – he doesn’t even bother counting – and he is acutely aware of how _slowly_ his breath is returning this time. He is still wheezing, desperate to get all the air he can, and then coughing again and his throat is contracting and stinging and…

With a last horrible heave of his chest he manages to cough one last time and then there’s a hollow _splash_ of something heavier hitting the toilet bowl. His eyes are heavy now, his cheeks crusty with his tears. Remus hands move to his back and continue massaging into his skin, even as he can feel the boy move over his back, peering next to his head.

“…did you _eat_ those flowers?”

Okay, and now Sirius is really rather offended at Remus’ lack of tact because _honestly_ , who asks somebody whether or not they eat flowers? Since when is that a thing decent people do? And also, you know, he just almost _died_ , it would be really cool if his best friend did not judge his eating habits right about now.

He blinks blearily and he thinks of a lot of rude things to say to Moony, except that he only utters them inside his head. He feels like maybe his heart is heavy, but the touch against his skin is light and cool.

When he has blinked all the tears from his eyes, he realises that there’s just the tiniest bit of stem along the petals, and he just spontaneously feels like crying again. Because, flower petals? Like established, weird as fuck, but not that life-defining. Flower petals and stems?

His body is growing flowers. And _that_ is pretty damn life-defining.

Marlene helps Remus drape his robe over his shoulder and then she leaves with a wink that says, “I still think you’re cool but you would never want to see me naked again if I stayed to comfort you,” which is an excellent point she’s making.

They don’t say anything as Remus flushes the toilet and there’s a stray petal here and there as he is reduced to heavy breath and the occasional coughs. His knees ache now, but his throat aches more. He never wants to speak again.

“Hey,” Remus does this absolutely _ridiculous_ thing. He takes his face in between his hands and he uses his dark thumbs to wipe at the tears leaking lazily from his eyes. His touch is firm but gentle and he looks so _worried_ , his hazel eyes all dark and depressed holes in his handsome face. There is a flutter somewhere in Sirius’ chest and he wonders if maybe the petals are now dancing in the breeze, “you’re okay. I’m here,” and there’s another flutter and he’s pretty sure the damn flowers are having an absolute _ball_ somewhere in his rotten body.

He’s shivering, he’s not sure why. His face feels bloated, puffy under his eyes – he hasn’t cried in the longest time, not like this at least. He can’t remember the last time he’s cried like this, and he’s not sure if he wants to.

Remus mistakes his shivering for him being chilly so he helps him into the robe properly, rubbing his hands down his arms to help him warm up. It’s highly unnecessary, but there’s a cuteness factor to Remus’ face all scrunched up and serious, tan hands determined to create heat. He’s wearing red pyjamas, and the colour is very bright, but very attractive against Remus’ dark skin.

He helps him up, and his knees are weak, he realises it now. He spent all the brain energy on thinking about Moony’s pyjamas and now he has none left to function properly, so he kind of sways, bumps into Remus and then gets caught in his friend’s arms.

“There, there,” he hums, helps him regain his focus and then half carries half drags him back into the dorm.

They sit on the bed, and Remus strokes his hair to behind his ears and then ties it up for him in one of the pretty golden _kanzashi_ by his bed. He’s staring at the flowers, Sirius notices, and he can almost see the gears turn in his head, probably wondering, _has Padfoot gone crazy? Is he on a flower-diet? Did I encourage a flower feeding frenzy?_ but before he can bring it up, Prongs and Wormtail burst back into the room.

He nips his hot cocoa but they don’t talk about it, not really. His throat feels raw and his eyes keep drooping shut. James is giving him these long desolate looks and he wonders _is this what it’s like to have an older brother? Do I look at Reg this way?_ and he gets a little sad at the thought that he doesn’t know, not really.

After finishing his drink he turns into Padfoot because it doesn’t ache so much as Padfoot, not really, because now he has a tale and _four_ legs to worry about. His friends take the hint, but only kind of, because they make themselves comfortable on his bed and he ends up falling asleep with Remus’ head resting on his tummy and his own drooling snout in James’ lap and Peter dangerously close to his doggy bottom.

Later they do talk about, but it’s more Sirius shrugging than anything else, because for four exceedingly smart wizards, do-it-yourself-animagi and extraordinary magical map makers, the four of them know very little about flowers and what to do when one starts growing them in their own body.

Wormtail goes to ask Madam Pomfrey who seems more worried about his mental health at the question than anything else, and when Remus talks to professor Sprout about growing flowers in human bodies she just very distractedly replies that all flowers need the right soil to be allowed to blossom and bloom.

Prongs writes to his parents, ever the beloved son, but they seem to deduce that he is trying to find Evans a nice bouquet and his father just suggests he goes for some nice lilies _because her name is Lily, son_ and his mother writes words of encouragement with a P.S. _“tell Sirius we love him”_.

He appreciates the sentiment, really, he does, but the emotion behind parental love is foreign to him.

It’s getting colder now, and as winter colours the whole of Hogwarts white, it’s almost _easy_ to forget about this little problem he’s developed.

They sneak into Hogsmeade every other night to drink hot pints of butterbeer in the Three Broomsticks and as a child he never celebrated Christmas but ever since coming to Hogwarts he kind of gets what everyone is always on about, because there is something magical about the powder white rooftops, the interesting caroller combinations of witches, hags and vampires, the huge Christmas trees all around town decorated with glittering golden balls the size of his head, and best of all, the absolute adorableness that is Remus Lupin, dressed up in layers of scruffy sweaters, his Gryffindor scarf and a hat with little pom-poms pulled low over his ear as he runs after Prongs across the snowy plains of the forbidden forest.

It’s almost wondrous being a dog during winter – for one, he is always the exact right body temperature, never too hot or too cold. He gets to prance around in thick layers of snow without any protection and never feel a chill, his full fur always protecting him. His paws leave the cutest prints and it’s cool how he can jump around, sink away into soft snow and still come out unscathed. Making snow angels, though not really an activity he imagines most dogs indulge in, is the absolute height of fun, as he can just roll around, bury his head in deep, and then watch as Moony just bursts into a fit of giggles at the sight of what he fondly refers to as _“snow monsters”_.

As usual, when winter holidays roll around, both James and Peter leave to visit their families for Christmas, and Remus, whose relationship with his father is tense at best, explosive at worst, stays behind – it doesn’t feel _fake_ , not what it felt like in first year when James stayed behind and then stared out of windows longingly, because like Sirius, Remus legitimately has _no interest_ in spending his days back home, where his mother cringes at the look of his scars and his father can’t meet his eye.

They spend a lot of time playing explosive snap and creeping around corridors they have not yet mapped. There’s only a handful of people staying behind in the Gryffindor common room for Christmas, and some evenings they all gather around the fire while Remus and Sirius raid the kitchen for hot cocoa and butterbeer for the older students, and then they drink and eat sweets from Zonko’s and tell stories and just _enjoy_.

He keeps an eye on Moony because the boy is really good at being supportive and funny and everything all at the same time – so he helps first years with their difficult History of Magic essays due after the holidays and then helps some mischievous fourth years with igniting fireworks in the corridors and there’s always just this amazingly golden glint in his amber eyes, and Sirius knows that that’s probably what happiness looks like.

On Christmas morning they both sleep in, because really, that is the kind of lazy buggers they are, and they spent an improper amount of time the night before checking and rechecking the enchantments of the map before roaming out and celebrating with a midnight stroll. He wakes up with this image fluttering behind his eyelids of how _happy_ his friend had looked, all bronze skin and mittened hands urging him on, grin so wide his teeth were bare in the waning moon light. It’s not an overall very strange thought to have, because after all Moony is a very cheerful and positive person as a general rule – only moody and glum when the full moon draws near – and it is easy to see him as the light that warms so many people’s hearts. There’s a tickle in his throat though, and he’s almost forgotten about the whole choking-on-flowers thing. _That is funny_ , because for months it’s been the first thought in his head, every single morning.

He hears the rustling of Remus’ blankets and when he pulls apart his own drapes the brunette is already awake and eating a chocolate bar. When he smiles his teeth are brown with the sweet goo, and it’s oddly endearing.

They open up their presents in the common room, and Sirius has a whole bunch of new drawing supplies and candy and a broomstick kit from the Potters and there’s even a package from Regulus that says _“oniisan he”_ and his heart is _full_. Remus is right beside him unpacking thick volume after thick volume and he’s already raving about all the pranks they’ll be able to pull if he masters even just a single one of these enchantments and Sirius _knows_ , this is what family feels like.

The rest of the holidays are spend in a sort of daze because Sirius is getting a little worried again, ever since that itch in his throat on Christmas morning and he’s gotten used to the _ache_ , but itching and scratching usually means he’s about to puke up some lovely petals again and he’s not sure if he _wants to_.

He spends a lot of his time drawing in his sketch book because that’s the type of thing he does – he hates _talking_ _about_ emotions and he hates _feeling_ emotions, but he’s rather good at translating them into rough lines, black charcoal smears and portraits Wormtail calls “stunning!”

Most of the times he sits at Remus’ feet while the boy reads a book and sometimes he just kind of roams around the castle until he finds a place that is comfortable and warm and deserted and then he draws there until later when Moony comes wandering in, book in hand and he never has to use the map, it’s like he always _know_.

They don’t talk about it, because they don’t have to. They both know what it’s like to not grow up talking about all your thoughts and emotions, heart on your sleeve, because despite the fact that they’re in a magical castle in a magically protected part of the country, there is _no such thing_ as fairy tales. It is mere fact, it needs no discussion.

He doesn’t need to tell Remus he’s scared of dying – because Remus already knows.

These days he draws a lot of Moony’s silly face – there’s no one else to follow him into desolate castle corners, after all.

After the holidays it’s almost _deafening_ , the return of all the nose and tumult of a busy school for teenagers. There’s an incredibly healthy blush on Prong’s face, and it deepens as he holds onto his best friend tightly, draws him into an embrace that feels so much like he supposes his should feel to his brother. Wormtail is plumper than he was, _too much Christmas pudding_ , they tease, but he looks almost giddy with joy and they spend their first night back together in the dorm staying up and telling stories, gathering on Moony’s four poster as Prongs shows them the pictures he got developed during the holidays, all of which Moony took with an old muggle camera. Their faces are gleaming with joy in almost every single one, and they fall asleep, happy and complete again.

Except the next day the tickle has gotten worse.

One afternoon they’re studying in the library, gathered around a table with the fauteuils pulled close so that they can stack the books they’re researching on them. James is working on his transfiguration essay and Remus is helping Sirius research magical maladies now, because his mood is down which is a tell-tale sign that he could be choking again every minute. It is funny how easily Moony sees through his mask – “Padfoot,” he says, “you get this _aura_. You know, like me and the full moon,” and he shrugs and that kind of decides it.

He uses his wand to keep his long hair in a knot on the top of his head and he’s about to doze off – he has _no interest_ in magical maladies and the fact that it may be a life-or-death situation somehow does not make things all the more exciting for him.

“Sirius?” he looks up from where he’s been staring at a picture of a witch with Dragon pox, humming disinterestedly at his friend – transfiguration homework is probably the only thing _more bothersome_ than looking up a mysterious illness in decade-old volumes – Prongs is nodding to something behind him, “I think your brother is trying to get your attention?”

“Stop thinking James, your pretty little head might explode,” he sticks out his tongue but then when he goes to look, he notices Regulus skulking over by the Ancient Runes section.

Everything about him is pristine – his Slytherin tie is neatly ironed and his hair is slicked back and freshly cut. He wonders if he should say something – Regulus sent him a brand new box of expensive looking crayons, as a thank you for the bronze shōgi set Sirius got him, and they never mention these things and _that_ , doesn’t ache in his throat but in his _heart_.

He’s holding this _really_ fancy book though – it looks absolutely ancient and it has a golden spine and the papers are lined with gold too. It has a header is curvy golden letters, the kanji “kuro” and “Black” beneath it. The tittle is written in curly Latin which he refuses to read just out of spite, and there’s calligraphy beneath it, more Japanese letters, “ _hanahakibyō”_ , he reads, and then frowns.

“…is that a library book?” he asks even though he already has a hunch, seeing how his family name is written all over the cover.

Regulus’ pale cheeks blush pink, “no,” he shakes his head, “I brought this from home.”

“Are you crazy? Mother and father will—“

Before he can finish his hot-headed reply, Regulus is already shutting him up, abruptly pulling him down by his robes and pulling him deeper into the darkness of the book racks, “just listen!” he breezes, almond-shaped eyes glaring angrily, “I… I had the same problem as you last year…” Sirius doesn’t ask how he _knows_ , because he guesses that if you start puking up petals one day you easily recognise the signs in other, “Severus kind of…” suddenly he’s kind of blushing, eyes averted to his shoes, “helped me… cured me…”

“What?” the last part just throws him off balance because nowhere in any sick fantasies has he ever imagined _Severus Snape_ of all people could be the one to potentially save him.

“It were black roses for me, but I’m pretty sure it’s the same thing,” he shrugs his shoulders and then awkwardly thrusts the thick book into Sirius’ chest, “just take it, okay? I don’t want you to…” he licks his lips nervously, and then pushes past Sirius, “I don’t want you to get sicker,” he leaves just as suddenly as he’d appeared, but Sirius can’t shake the feeling that that wasn’t what he had been about to say.

That night he closes his blinds and then in the light of his _lumos_ he opens up the book and there is literally _not a single fun thing_ in the whole entire volume. There’s a whole chapter on the history of what he understands is a curse that some mad old warlock put on their family way back when; believing that they were wicked and unlovable, they would fall ill as long as their love was unreturned and then there’s a whole lot of drawings of lungs sprouting buds and those buds blossoming into flowers, climbing up tracheas. He understands half of the Japanese and the other half is just conjecture, but apparently the puking of flowers means he’s in love? He shakes his head in disbelief, _Regulus must have fallen off his broom at practice._

There’s pages and pages of different sizes and colours of petals, big and red, small and yellow, and there’s kanji scribbled underneath. From the amount of characters he’s guessing they’re names, and then when he continues flipping through the book there’s pages with heart-shaped orange petals and it has a name written in English that he’s never heard before. It’s not until a couple of pages later, when there’s a purple petal that has “Violetta Bulstrode” written beneath it in a graceful handwriting that he realises the names are not those of his relatives, but their loved ones.

His head hurts and he’s suddenly very much aware of his heart pounding in his chest and his ribcage feels constricting because _this is far too complicated for someone choking on flowers_. He flips over page after page and there’s dozens of names that he recognises, people he’s seen on the Black family tree back home in the drawing room and for once their names are not just scribbles on the huge mural but they’re _real_ and they have _feelings_ and their own kind of _flowers_ , every single one of them unique and pasted here almost _lovingly_ , and…

There’s a blank page and then a familiar scribble that he recognises to be his younger brother’s. The script is neat and tiny, written above the delicate petal of a black rose, _“flowers will keep growing until love is reciprocated or,”_ it reads, and the blank space is significant, Sirius feels it _ache_ – then in even smaller letters, _“gets better when he’s around”_ and then he’s almost scared to read on because he’s pretty sure he knows what it’s going to say below the petal and…

_Severus Snape_

Okay no, he decides _no_ , he is not joining in this idiotic game or _whatever this even is_. He is not _in love_ and flowers are _not killing him_. Also? Snape and Regulus? Not in a million years.

He throws the book in his trunk and then he covers it with all the dirty clothes he can find and for some reason he’s just _furious_ , because granted, he’s not the most in-touch persons with all his feelings and stuff but he’s _pretty sure he’d know if he’s in love_.

Except that he remembers the way his father had looked, laughing in his face, and had that been it? The realisation that someone as oblivious to anything love-related as Sirius would surely succumb to his illness before finding a way to have his love returned to him?

He feels sick to the stomach just thinking about it, honestly. He slams his trunk shuts and then crawls back into bed and he wants this whole ridiculous day to just be _over_ already and he stares at the flowers blooming besides his bed, just as Moony had said they would, and they’re _so pretty_ , he just wishes they weren’t killing him.

It gets worse.

He gets a violent coughing attack during practice and then he’s just _wheezing_ all the way back to the castle and he doesn’t feel _any better_ no matter how gently Prongs tries to pat his back to clear his airways. It’s just all gasping and dragging his too-tired body on and he doesn’t feel any relief until he hits the dorm where Remus and Peter are designing the Marauder’s map and eating Bertie Bott’s Beans. He lays on his bed, flat on his back and he listens to the other boys calling soothing things from their own beds – his chest feels like maybe it’s expanding? Maybe his ribs will crack with the pressure of it? Maybe the flowers will burst through his chest before they rob him of his air?

And slowly his breath returns to him. He cries more out of aggravation than anything else, and then he just kind of snaps at his friends to let him do the decorations because they’re _horrible_ at drawing top views of goblin statues. He thinks maybe they pity him a bit and he absolutely _hates it_.

A lot of his time is spent trying to figure out the semantics of this thing inside of him. He draws lungs and the little seeds of his love find soil in the very air he breathes and they grow and bloom into a first flower there, then. But with the love being unreciprocated, the flower dies there, too, and then the petals have to find a way out.

He draws the way a couple of left behind petals form more flowers and then he feels the ache in his chest again because there is _no way_ he can just keep on growing flowers for the rest of his life. _Or you know,_ he’ll keep growing flowers _for the rest of his life_ and that will be the end of him.

As winter slowly prepares for spring they sneak out of the dorm after curfew and take one of the hidden pathways to go and explore Hogsmeade. There’s a celebration of the equinox in the Hog’s Head, with lots of drink and dancing, and he spots a group of Slytherins across the room but feels comforted knowing his little brother is safe and sound back at the school.

Sirius gets them some firewhisky while the other Marauders make absolute ponces of themselves chatting up a couple of vampires who look no older than sixteen and then when he goes to turn around and divide the glasses between the four of them someone’s missing.

He scans the room and there by the fountain of bright orange fizzy lemonade is Snape with his hand on Remus’ arm and—

 _Laughing_. He’s _laughing_ , his head thrown back in mirth, long bronze throat revealed and his hands clasped over his chest. There is something so _very very messed up wrong_ about that picture but then Snape puts another one of his filthy hands on Remus’ arm and the boy is _smiling_ , his whole dark face lights up with the sparkles in his eyes and it’s the happiest he’s _ever_ seen him, he’s _quite sure of it_ and then he doesn’t want to have to watch that anymore.

He thinks about his brother all the way back to the dorm, as he walks the path alone, and his blood is going _thump thump_ in his ears and he’s so _angry_ because all he sees is the way _Regulus’ cheeks had blushed bright right_ and _“Severus cured me”_ and _Remus’ eyes lighting up as he throws his head back_ and _…_

The happiest he’s ever seen his _best friend_ was when that slimy racist bastard had put his hands on him and he can’t…

He can’t breathe.

Quite literally, _he cannot breathe_.

He falls to the dirty soil floor and grasps at his throat because it’s clamping up and he can feel the storm coming and he thinks of all those drawings he made, petals filling up his lungs and…

He tries to relax because there’s nothing else he _can_ do – tears fill his eyes as he throat starts stinging with it and ever tiny breath he manages to get in through his nose _hurts_ and he presses his hands into his chest, tries to encourage the petals out and it’s like _fire licking up his windpipe_ and…

His whole body shakes with the effort and he falls forward onto hands and knees when it finally comes, from _all the way_ deep down and there’s hundreds of petals, and they’re just _streaming_ down his chin, running from his mouth and he tries to keep his body slack, tries not to intrude as he feels all this _love leaving his body_ and _…_

He thinks he passes out because next thing he knows he’s on his side on the cold ground. He’s breathing again, _panting_ , breath ragged and painful, but the floor and his robes and hair are covered in tiny white flower petals. He gets up, brushes himself off, and moves on.

The next day he ignores the Marauders’ questions and tells Severus Snape about the Whomping Willow’s secret. There is something triumphant in the Slytherin’s eyes, and he’s not sure _why_ but _Remus is smiling, eyes bright_ he thinks he has a hunch.

It’s all just escalation from thereon.

Prongs is angry but forgiving, Wormtail is in awe and Moony is livid.

They no longer go to the library together. Regulus corners him in the Potion’s corridor and yells at him, right up in his face, “ _you stupid pig-headed—_ “ and then “ _push away the only one that can help you_ ” and he gets angry again because Regulus doesn’t _know anything_ , he didn’t see _Snape’s hand on his arm_ and _maybe_ Severus _saved Regulus_ but now he’s _stabbing him in his back_ and there is no way in hell that he will ever let himself be saved by the grace of Severus Snape.

He doesn’t tell his brother, and he doesn’t understand him either, but he doesn’t know that yet.

As these things usually go he doesn’t feel any better _at all actually_. These days all his drawings are wilting flowers because it’s like for some really stupid reason the flowers are dying and growing and dying at an exponential rate and _every morning_ he wakes up coughing and he goes to bed with an unbearably scratchy feeling in his throat and it’s just generally a very horrible experience.

Remus won’t look him in the eye, James holds his hair as he pukes out every dirty rotten petal inside and then he feels like he can already feel the flowers rooting and growing again bare minutes later. He starts skipping classes because there’s just _nothing else he can do_ when he spends most of his time lying on his side, gasping for breath.

At night he’s too afraid to fall asleep and lose his breath while dreaming so he digs through his trunk and gets out the book and he looks at all the petals of _all the different flowers_ , bright pinks and yellows and purples and oranges and he feels a _warmth_ somewhere deep down and _then_ he feels cold because he understands why his father had been laughing and he…

He wakes up in the infirmary this time, which is not a very comforting thought. Peter is on the chair next to his bed – he opens up a chocolate frog and then tears off its leg before it can jump off.

“We’re taking turns guarding you,” he says it bravely, every inch of him a true Gryffindor – there’s a _don’t worry_ , _you’re okay_ , _you’re not dead_ , there, but he doesn’t say it out loud.

His brother visits him with a very angry looking face and before he can even open his mouth – which he doesn’t really _want to do_ because his throat is itching and he wants to cry again, possibly – Regulus just kind of _flings_ himself into the chair and deadpans, “Remus, you stupid prick. It’s _Remus_ ,” and he’s not sure what he means but—“and now he won’t even _talk to you_ , because you sent someone to be _murdered by him_. I hate you so much,” he glares, his eyes very dark and ominous looking and then, very casually, he summons a single white flower – delicate and long, glittering almost silver in the daylight – and he deposits it on the nightstand, saying, “they’re called moon flowers,” and then turning on his heels all haughtily.

He spends the rest of the day looking at the flower on his nightstand – even as Prongs comes by with some food from the Great Hall and tries to entertain him with stories of all the classes he’s missed. Peter joins after dinner and they try to play cards but Sirius’ breath is coming out in little pants and his chest _hurts_. Madam Pomfrey shoos them out eventually and she gives Sirius some potion that makes his lungs _burn_ but then he spontaneously pukes out a whole bunch of wilted flower petals and she puts a bucket besides his bed and gives him this very painful look and as he watches the shrivelled little white things flow from his lips and he thinks he gets it.

He sees Remus’ face, all coppery skin and smiling, delicate hands holding onto his robe and waving at him from the stands as he practices and he remembers _not seeing Remus at all_ the day of his first coughing fit and _maybe_ …

And Remus is pushing his hair behind his ear, deep blush slightly darkening his cheeks as a Ravenclaw girl laughs at his joke and—

and it had been Remus _too_ , that same night, who rubbed his back and made him _breathe again_ and _…_

He remembers his own childish jealousy as Moony prances off with Prongs and _his smell_ , so intoxicating and—a single stupid little thought as he’s looking for his smokes, _what if Moony got his own Marlene?_ and then afterwards Remus’ copper skin on his pale chest and…

 _Nothing hurt at Christmas_ not because it was _Christmas_ but because there was always this version of Moony – laughing, smiling, twirling his chestnut hair, pulling his wand from his robe, dark fingers against his plump lips as he studies his book, eyes _so bright_ , _canines showing_ , always – _right beside him._

He falls asleep knowing, _for the first time_ , what _loving someone else more than breath itself_ feels like.

It’s still dark when he wakes up next, but there’s the soft sound of sobs coming from by the bed. His eyes flutter open and then shut and then open again, and there’s Remus, feet tucked up into his body, bright red pyjamas with his face buried in his hands and he thinks he’s _crying_ and it reverberates in his chest, awakens the blossoming buds inside of him and it’s _agony_.

“I cannot believe you did that,” Moony sobs into his hands, murmuring pathetically, “just when I—you—“

“I saw you and Snape,” he wants to be angry about it, because Remus hasn’t even talked to him since the incident and if that in itself isn’t upsetting enough there’s also the fact that _he_ … and _Snape_ … and his throat kind of burns with it too, his voice hoarse.

Whether Remus is more surprised at the fact that he’s awake or the words he’s spoken, he’s not sure, but either way the boy’s face snaps up and his eyes are so dark in the dim-lit room, but there’s tears like pearls hanging from his lashes.

“What?” he’s very good at faking composure and he wipes at his face with the sleeve of his pyjamas as if they are a mere distraction.

“Night of the equinox,” it hurts to talk, Sirius realises bitterly, and maybe Madam Pomfrey had looked at him so sadly because she already knew _he is_ —

Except Remus laughs.

He’s dying and Remus _laughs_.

He wants to be bitter about it, but he has a hunch that being bitter about Moony will only fasten his own demise.

With his nose buried in his sleeve, desperately trying to hide his giggling so he won’t wake up the matron he just shakes his head with an air as if Sirius is the biggest idiot he has ever met in his whole life – which, Sirius is quite sure, _he’s not_.

“You _idiot_ ,” the tone of voice too, suggests Sirius has now been crowned King of the Idiots and he’s not sure _how_ he feels about _that_ , honestly, “he only spoke with me because Regulus asked him to! Your brother begged Severus to, because _apparently your stubborn ass had been handed the cure but refused to realise it_ ,” there’s a whole lot of heat in his eyes, and his friend looks kind of torn between sentiments, as if he really wants to be angry and rage, except that perhaps he’s also slightly amused, because there’s gold specks in the dark amber, “he told me about this,” and then, he just kind of heaves up a thick book from next to his chair, poofs it down on the bed next to Sirius and—

There’s all the petals, fluttering prettily as Remus skips through the pages, mutters, “of course I didn’t believe him at first, he got quite upset, I was laughing because it sounded too ridiculous to be true, but the idea that maybe you like me… like that… made me happy, too,” and his fingers come to a halt on the page where Regulus’ black rose petal is pasted, all prettily with his brother’s handwriting above and below it.

Remus runs his fingers over the page, a frown on his face. Ever so slowly he takes his wand from his pocket and then he waves it at the flower on the bedside table and very delicately one of the petals tears itself free and gently flies over to the book, attaching itself a little ways below the black one.

They kind of just stare at it for a moment, and then the boy unfurls his body from the chair, all long legs and delicate hands and Sirius has _never_ doubted his bravery but then there’s also not a single doubt in his head that what the werewolf does next is the single most bravest thing he has ever done in his whole entire life.

He leans into the bed on his one knee, placing it besides the old Black family book and then he just kind of very abruptly pulls at the collar of Sirius’ gown and pushes their lips together.

It feels like an explosion in his chest – his heart is _thumping_ into his ribcage so hard he’s sure it will break free and soar off and…

As far as first kisses go he’s pretty sure this one is _it_ , it is THE MASTER OF ALL FIRST KISSES, the Mother-Kiss, the Kiss to end All Other Kisses, _the one_. Remus’ lips are plump and wet and soft and his hand falls down beside them and he’s vaguely aware of the book slipping and falling to the floor but it doesn’t matter.

Except that he starts coughing as soon as they separate – even just a single inch – and Remus looks pretty horrified at that, his eyes suddenly wide.

The petals come easy now, it’s like they’re rushing up his throat and it’s more of a tickling feeling, bearable and he coughs and coughs and coughs until Remus stops looking so worried and starts laughing instead, the petals fluttering around, gliding down towards the bed, drifting to the floor.

They kiss again and he feels the movement _for sure_ now, and he imagines hundreds of petals going crazy inside his chest, rustling and cluttering around, racing to be the first out. He loses his hands in Remus’ unruly mop of hair and then when he exhales there’s petals flowing from his mouth again – the amber eyes light up at the sight and he presses another kiss to his lips, enjoys the effect of his actions as more petals flutter out.

It takes them _absolute ages_ , but if one thing can be said about Remus Lupin it is that he is no _quitter_ – he is devastatingly determined, kissing him with _all that he has_ and luring more and more of the petals out. He presses his lips very sweetly to Sirius’ cheek and he thinks _maybe I died after all?_ because he’s pretty sure this is what Muggles call “ _heaven_ ”.

His hands kind of push up underneath Sirius’ gown and he’s _not embarrassed okay maybe a little_ but his friend is nothing if not honourable so he just presses into Sirius’ chest as if trying to _feel_ where the flowers Sirius sprouted for him are growing. His lips trail down his jaw bone and then his neck and he pauses just so he can watch the white petals burst from Sirius’ mouth once more, eyes hooded and fingers soft.

They end up on their sides and Remus’ hands are still on his chest beneath his gown but now there is no fluttering there, _nothing left_ except for the _thumpa-thumpa_ his heart does every time their eyes meet, and he feels the boy’s digit playing over his skin and there’s _goosebumps_ and he feels like maybe those digits are _all he needs_ to chase the ache – he had felt in his chest for so long – away. His lips are still against his cheekbone, as if maybe Remus is expecting one last petal to come forth – but there’s none left, Sirius can _feel it_.

All the flowers have been pulled from their soil, and in return he is now cultivating kisses, touches and caresses, just to share with his Moony.

The next day as he’s getting ready to leave the infirmary, he finds the book where it fell off the bed earlier and picks it back up. He fishes a quill from his bag and scribbles the name of his own beloved below the white flower petal before tracing his fingers over the page, closing the book with a gentle smile on his face.

_Remus Lupin_

**Author's Note:**

> I know Sirius goes to the Potter’s when he’s sixteen. Here he goes between fifth and sixth year because I wanted it that way.


End file.
